


Many Happy Returns

by sam80853



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:19:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1385719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam80853/pseuds/sam80853
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson meets a mysterious man that, somehow, is rather familiar to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many Happy Returns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stormymouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormymouse/gifts).



People would call John Watson one lucky bastard. Well, they did. Before today, that is.

John had come home from his tour in Afghanistan nine months ago and was now married with a baby on the way. Yes, John wasn’t quite as well as he had been before his regiment was ambushed under the hot desert sun. He ended up with a bullet in his shoulder that could have cost him his life. But he survived. With a still-painful scar on his shoulder, an intermittent tremor in his left hand and a cane to support his leg. Alive, nonetheless, and married to the most beautiful woman: Mary Morstan-Watson.

A kindred spirit to John’s own adventurous lifestyle Mary had been abroad, saving lives as part of the Doctors Without Borders programme, while John was defending Queen and Country. In many ways they were meant to be. John could not imagine life without her. He couldn’t wait to travel the world with her and their child once it was born.

“John,” Mary whispered in John’s ear, snuggling against him while they slow-danced to the music. “Let’s go home before I do something to scandalize these proper people.”

John hid his giggles in her hair, missing a beat when his leg buckled. Mary’s hand on John’s waist strengthened to briefly support his weight while he got his bearings.

“Let’s,” John answered, kissing her cheek.

They waved good-bye to the few people they knew at the party - they hardly ever attended official functions like this one -- too proper. But sometimes needs must.

“I’ll get the car,” Mary said while John helped her into her coat.

John didn’t remember all that much afterwards. There had been a bright light, a loud noise, a force throwing him against his seat belt hard.

When John came around, his vision was blurry. Blood streamed down his face from a wound on his head. There were more lights - police cars, ambulances.

“Mary!”

John struggled with his seat belt, the folds of the airbag; his hands steady, military training kicking in.

“Mary, look at me!” John was lifting her eyelid to get a good look at her pupil when a policeman opened the car door at the driver’s side.

“Sir, are you injured?”

“We need an ambulance,” John called out. “Now!”

John hadn’t made it out of their car when EMTs had put a brace around Mary’s neck and carefully lifted her onto a stretcher, rolling her away.

“I…” John tried to reach Mary but was insistently held aside.

“I’m a doctor!” John pushed back against the hands restraining him, trying to reach his wife’s side. “I’m a bloody doctor!” He called out again and was finally able to touch Mary’s hand.

Cold. So cold.

“I will go with her.” John’s tone of voice didn’t leave any room for arguments. The ambulance doors closed behind them, EMTs and John trying to stabilize Mary’s condition.

In the end, it was all fruitless.

Mary never regained consciousness and John lost his beloved wife and his unborn child in one night.

~::~::~::~::~

“Sir!” Anthea entered Mycroft Holmes' office, her eyes fixed on the smartphone in her hands which seem to hold critical information. “We found one.”

“My car,” Mycroft said, reaching for his jacket, his umbrella. Even though he obviously wouldn’t need it.

“Already waiting,” Anthea confirmed, turning on her heel and leaving the office. Her eyes never left the screen.

As soon as Anthea had departed, Mycroft took a deep breath as if he was preparing for battle. In many ways he was.

A battle for his brother’s life.

~::~::~::~::~

Sherlock was sitting in his kitchen at 221B Baker Street, an on-going experiment holding his attention when distinctive footsteps announced the arrival of his brother.

“Go away!” Sherlock called even before Mycroft had reached the front door.

“Mummy would be appalled by your manners, brother dear.” Mycroft entered, assessing the flat.

In disarray. As always.

Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to clean up after himself but that was really not important right now.

“We are expected at Saint Bart’s.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

“I am clean.”

“I’m well aware of the fact, Sherlock.” Mycroft cocked his head, watching his brother closely. “But your heart is not.”

Sherlock’s latest relapse had left him with pneumonia which, untreated, had affected his heart in such a way that he, simply speaking, needed a new one.

“Please.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but finally stood, tightening the sash of his gown and following his brother to the car. Getting dressed first was a waste of time, Sherlock figured. He wouldn’t need his suit for quite a while.

~::~::~::~::~

Life without Mary was dreadful.

Unbearable, really.

It had been six month now and people kept on saying that it would get better. With time.  
But it didn't. It really did not.

Most days, John was walking around London in a daze. He was neither seeing nor hearing anything other than the beat of his own hurting heart.

His leg had slowly become worse and John’s excursions were cut shorter and shorter these days. He didn’t care all that much. Nothing mattered anymore.

Once or twice, John had thought about taking his own life with the service revolver he had retained, illegally.

Mary would have been furious, John knew, and so he kept on going.

“John! John Watson.” A somewhat familiar voice pulled John from his stupor. He turned, leaning heavily on his cane, to face an old friend of his and Mary’s: Mike Stamford.

Mike’s easy chatter and his unwillingness to take John’s hint to leave him be, brought them to Angelo’s, an Italian restaurant just around the corner.

John tried to be civilized, he really did, but listening to Mike made his teeth grind.

“John--” There was the tone John had been waiting for ever since his path had crossed Mike’s. That compassionate, pitying tone people took to when talking to him. John hated it.

“Don’t!” He almost growled, standing up and stepping away from their table.

“John.” Mike stood as well but John just shook his head, backing away.

“Just -- don’t.”

John had almost made it to the door when a tall man in a long coat swept in.

“Angelo,” the man bellowed, “I need your phone!”

Conversation stopped which seemed to irritate the man further.

“A phone!” He called again like everyone should just drop what they were doing and hand him their phone.

John was oddly fascinated; his heart was beating a bit faster than usual.

“Take mine,” John offered, not quite knowing how his phone had made it into his hand.

The stranger just took the offered device, turning partly away from John and started typing. He didn’t pay any attention to his surroundings whatsoever.

John almost smiled when he really should have been annoyed. Aren’t you supposed to say thank you?

“Iraq or Afghanistan?”

“Sorry?” John frowned. What…?

“Which was it… Iraq or Afghanistan?” The stranger repeated his question, still focused on John’s phone.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?”

“Never mind, Angelo,” the man addressed Angelo, who had just emerged from the kitchen. “This good doctor here was so kind to offer me his phone.”

John’s frown grew when the man shut off the phone and handed it back to John.

“Gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” And with that the man was gone, leaving John standing in his wake, dumbfounded.

“Who was that?” Mike asked but John didn’t really hear him. He stepped outside, watching the man vanish around the corner.

“Arrogant git,” John mumbled.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully.

It was only when John got home that he realised he’d hardly used his cane on the journey.

~::~::~::~::~

I hope this letter will bring some comfort, knowing that a good man will keep on living because of your thoughtfulness. Not that he would ever say as much. That’s why I took it upon myself to write this note…

John’s hands were shaking.

Of course he had known when opening a letter from the Organ Donor Organization what it would contain but…

“Oh God,” John whispered, dropping the letter.

This day had turned out to be a better one than yesterday. Due to a stranger asking for his phone. But now everything he had lost came crashing down on him once again.

John slid down to the floor, hitting the cupboard at his back with something hard.

His mobile phone.

Slowly John retrieved his phone from his pocket, flicked through the menu to find ‘messages sent’:

_If brother has green ladder_  
arrest brother  
SH 

John started laughing.

Time came to a stand-still, while John sat on the floor. His backside had become sore and he needed to move when suddenly his phone vibrated, indicating a new incoming message:

_Come at once_  
if convenient  
SH 

It vibrated again almost immediately.

_If inconvenient,_  
come anyway  
SH 

John started chuckling.

Who the hell was this guy?

_The address is 221B Baker Street_  
The name's Sherlock Holmes.  
SH 

For just a moment John considered ignoring the demand but really, it was either opening the drinks cabinet or doing what he was told. John had always been good at following orders.

~::~::~::~

John made it to Baker Street in under half an hour, hesitant once he reached the destination. One deep breath though, and he was ready.

He used the knocker to announce his arrival.

An older lady in a purple dress opened the door.

"Oh, you must be Doctor Watson," she said in a friendly way, ushering him inside and towards a set of stairs leading upwards. "They’re upstairs."

"Who are?" John asked.

"I'm Mrs Hudson. The landlady."

"Right," John said. He watched Mrs Hudson vanish into what was probably her own flat, leaving him standing in the hallway. This day was just getting weirder and weirder.

"Right," John repeated to himself, slowly climbing up the stairs.

"Please come in, Doctor Watson," a male voice that was definitely not the man from the restaurant resounded as soon as John reached the threshold of 221B.

Upon entering John's eye immediately fell upon the man - Sherlock - he had met at Angelo's. He was sitting, or rather slouching, on a sofa by the window. His face was pale and sweaty.

"What the hell?" John's medical training took over of its own volition and he approached the obviously sick man. "What have you done?" He reached for Sherlock's forehead but got pushed away.

"I don’t need a doctor, Mycroft!" Sherlock sounded like a pouty three year-old.

"Yeah, you do," John disagreed, trying to look into Sherlock’s eyes.

"John," Sherlock said, trying to keep John off of him.

"You’re being childish," John said, lifting Sherlock off the sofa, one arm around his waist.

"Bedroom is through that door, Doctor Watson," Mycroft pointed toward the end of the hallway, not leaving his chair by the fireplace.

"This conversation isn't over, Mycroft," Sherlock spat.

"It really is, though," John said, dragging Sherlock through the door. He placed him as gently as possible on his bed, his eyes quickly scanning prescribed medication on Sherlock’s bedside table:  Avapro, Imuran, OKT3.  
Sherlock's dressing gown fell open to a fresh operative scar down his chest confirmed John’s suspicion. His breathing stopped, his fingers reached for the scar and then slowed, trembling.

"You are a doctor. An army doctor." Sherlock's eyes were suddenly clear, taking in John's distress. "This shouldn't..."

John pulled himself together then. "Doesn't matter," John whispered, pulling the covers over Sherlock and covering that damn scar.

"I see," Sherlock said, his face getting what must be his know-it-all look.

"I bet you do." John stood.

"Was it your wife, then?" Sherlock's curiosity was obviously piqued.

"Don't!" John's voice sounded harsh in his own ears. “I will make some tea," he said, as calmly as he could, and left Sherlock's bedroom.

John went straight into the kitchen, hiding his shaking hands.

Mycroft joined him, hovering on the threshold. “How do you feel about the violin?”

John closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

“Sorry?”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft pointed toward the bedroom. “He plays the violin when he’s thinking. Sometimes he does not talk for days on end. Would that bother you, Doctor Watson?”

John frowned in confusion.

“Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,” Mycroft continued.

“Flatmates?” John asked, ignoring the boiling kettle. “What do you mean by flatmates? I’m not,” The point of Mycroft’s questions finally dawned on John. “No,” he shook his head. “I’m not moving into your brother’s flat.”

A smile played around Mycroft’s lips then.

“I rather think you will, John. Can I call you John, John?” Mycroft stepped into the room, crowding John against the counter.

“Is that a threat?” John’s eyes never left Mycroft’s face. If he thought he could stare John into submission he was in for a surprise.

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening,” John replied, unbothered.

Mycroft stepped back then and laughed, all tension leaving the room.

“You could be the making of my brother,” Mycroft said, turning. He was about to leave when he turned around once again, ”Two sugars and splash of milk.”

John watched Mycroft leave, barely believing what had just happened.

“Tea!” Sherlock yelled, reminding John what he had been about to do before this strange conversation took place.

“Coming,” John said, turning on the kettle once again and looking around for tea cups, sugar and -- milk.

He opened the fridge and --

“Oh f--,” he immediately slammed it shut again, not believing what he just saw.

John slumped against the door for a moment, then straightened and opened the fridge door again. On the shelf inside was a man’s head, severed at the neck. He stared at it and it stared at him for a couple of seconds, then he quietly closed the door again.

“It’s a head.” John turned and called out louder: “A severed head!”

“Just tea for me, thanks,” came Sherlock’s calm reply.

John walked back into the bedroom, staring at his patient.

“No, there’s a head. In the fridge.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, looking at John for his reaction.

“A bloody head in the fridge.”

Sherlock frowned now. “Well, where else was I supposed to put it?”

“Where else…?” John shook his head in disbelief, just looking at Sherlock who returned his gaze.

“Does it bother you?” Sherlock finally asked, after a few seconds had gone by.

“It should,” John answered. “It really should.”

“You’re still here.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Tea?”

And that was it, really. John returned to the kitchen, finally preparing tea. It didn’t even cross his mind that it would have been saner to run screaming from the flat. While he still could.

~::~::~::~::~

Sherlock hadn’t even finished his cup of tea before he had fallen asleep. His face was still as pale as when John had entered 221B Baker Street and he decided to keep watch at Sherlock’s bedside. He was a doctor after all and from the looks of it he had just retained a new patient.

John watched Sherlock’s sleeping form. His unruly dark curls, his pale face. Slender body hidden by a blanket, and John’s mind returned to the scar he had spotted on Sherlock’s chest earlier.

With a scar like that and the medication nearby Sherlock obviously had had a heart transplant. Most likely just a few month ago, perhaps even…

John stopped this train of thought immediately.

Yes, Mary’s organs had been donated - she would not have wanted it any other way. Just because Sherlock had a new heart didn’t mean… John’s own heart started beating faster in distress. Just thinking that a part of Mary - her heart - was still out there, beating and alive, filled him with deep sadness of what he had lost.

Sherlock, who had been sleeping peacefully, started trashing, stopping John’s swirling thoughts. He touched Sherlock’s shoulder, calming his own inner turmoil and Sherlock seemed to calm in sync with John. John withdrew his hand and leant back in his chair, his eyes still on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock lived because somebody else - someone’s loved one - had died. This should give John peace. Deep down it did, John had to admit. His wounds were just too fresh still. One of these days he hopefully would be able to look at the fact and be glad that something good came out of his misery.

~::~::~::~::~

Sherlock woke, spotting John slumped over in a chair by his bed, sleeping. He had obviously been trying to keep watch. Unsuccessfully.

Why hadn’t he left, Sherlock wondered.

He took a closer look at the sleeping figure in his bedroom. Sherlock was usually good - very good - at reading people. Especially ordinary people. Like John. But there his mistake might lie. As ordinary as John looked in his worn out jeans and hideous jumper he was anything but. Something lay dormant under all that friendly, harmless demeanour. Something -- Sherlock bit his lip. He just wasn’t able to pin-point it. Yet.

Sherlock looked closer.

_Heavy bags under eyes._

_Clothing clean but worn._

_Deep wrinkles on forehead._

John’s whole life story from his estranged, alcoholic brother, his army service through his injury that invalided him home to his recently deceased wife. Everything was right there. But still, something was -- off.

Who in their right mind just walked into a strangers flat by request via text message? And who would stay after a certainly painful interaction with Mycroft?

Sherlock was about to get even closer to John when his mobile phone chimed.

A message from Lestrade.

“Perfect.” Sherlock whispered, getting out of bed.

It looked like the mystery that was John Watson needed to wait a bit longer.

~::~::~::~::

John was woken by the chiming of his phone, announcing the arrival of a new message.

_Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.  
MH_

What?

John couldn’t make much sense of the message. Someone must have sent it to his number by accident.

His phone chimed again.

_Sherlock  
MH_

“Sherlock?” John finally looked up at the bed he figured Sherlock would still be sleeping in and found it empty. “Bloody hell!” He cursed and jumped to his feet, grabbing his jacket on the way out, his cane forgotten at Sherlock’s bedside.

~::~::~::~::~

Sitting in a cab driving toward Lauriston Gardens John didn’t even know how he was supposed to find Sherlock. Would he just magically appear?

“Idiot,” John mumbled under his breath, scanning the street through his window.

_Crime scene  
MH_

“Why am I not surprised?” John asked himself,  meaning not only Sherlock’s whereabouts but also how Mycroft knew what he was thinking; he decided there and then never to give it a second thought, ever. The answer would probably scare him shitless.

John spotted the flashing lights of police cars at the end of the street and told the cabbie to stop.

“Thanks, mate,” John said, paid the cabbie and slowly walked towards the crime scene.

How was he supposed to find Sherlock in all this?

As it turned out he needn’t have worried.

“You must be Doctor Watson,” a dark-skinned police office approached John as soon as he had made it to the barrier. “Freak said you might show up.”

John’s back straightened immediately of its own volition, and his hands turned into fists. He never took to people bad-mouthing other people. The police officer didn’t notice any threat coming from John though, lifting the police tape to grant him access.

“Sherlock. His name is Sherlock,” John said through gritted teeth. His voice must have been more forceful than he intended; the police officer finally noticed that something was off. She looked at John more closely, frowning.

“You’re not his friend.” She stated matter-of-factly. “He doesn’t have friends. Who are you?”

John didn’t like her scrutiny one bit and walked towards the building all the commotion seem to be coming from.

“A bit of advice then,” she called after him. “Stay away from that guy.”

As that John turned around, facing her.

“Why?”

“You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing 'round a body and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one that put it there.”

“Why would he do that?

“Because he’s a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored.”

“Ah Sally,” Sherlock was suddenly just standing behind John, “always a pleasure to witness you making introductions.” His voice dripped with sarcasm and John couldn’t avoid a smile. “Shall we go, John? My business here is done.” Sherlock strode toward the main road, neither glancing at Sally nor waiting to see if John would follow.

~::~::~::~::~

Sherlock hailed a taxi and both men sat in silence - Sherlock preoccupied with his smartphone while John stole nervous glances at his companion.

“You have questions,” Sherlock suddenly said his eyes still fixed on his mobile phone.

“Yeah,” John nodded his head. “What was all that?” He pointed back the way they just came.

“Crime scene. Next.”

John huffed in annoyance.

“I got that. But what were you doing there?”

Sherlock looked up, sighed and put his mobile away.

“What do you think?” Sherlock asked, fully focused on John now.

“I’d say private detective…”

“But?”

“...but the police doesn’t go to private detectives.”

“I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.”

John frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

“The police don’t consult amateurs,” John stated and Sherlock threw him a look.

“The victim the police just found was not from London. They police had no idea where she was from.”

“But you do.” John stated rather than asked, a smile on his lips.

“Her coat was still slightly damp,” Sherlock continued without reacting to John. “She had been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Her collar was damp too; she had turned it up against the wind. She had an umbrella in her left hand pocket but it was dry and unused; not just wind, strong wind - too strong to use her umbrella. She must have come a decent distance but she couldn’t have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?” Sherlock got out his phone again and showed John a webpage displaying today’s weather for the southern part of Wales, Cardiff.

John blinked, trying to take it all in. “That’s fantastic!” he exclaimed.

“You think so?” Sherlock asked a look of confusion on his face.

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.” Sherlock said, still looking uncertain whether he could believe John’s words.

“What do people normally say?”

“‘Piss off’!”

John chuckled.

“What else?” Sherlock still looked at John, somehow knowing that not all of John’s questions had been answered yet.

John stopped smiling, his face turning serious.

“How long ago was your surgery?” He couldn’t help asking.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock turned away like any topic but this one was fair game.

“Sherlock,” John insisted. “You shouldn’t be out running around the streets with such a major incision done not too long ago. It’s dangerous, disrespectful.”

Sherlock’s head whipped around, his eyes piercing John’s.

“And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you doctor?” Sherlock’s voice had turned cold, calculating.

John wasn’t fazed.

“Someone else died to give you life.”

“Sentiment.” Sherlock said, looking out the window now.

“I hope that knowing that you can do what you do would give that person’s family peace,” John pressed through gritted teeth. He could hardly believe what Sherlock was saying.

“Like I said, sentiment.” Sherlock repeated, turning his head toward John. “Does it give you peace, John? Does the knowledge that your wife’s heart is beating in a stranger’s chest make your grief less painful? Nothing I do would bring that person back so I do not see the advantage of caring.”

John’s hands balled into fists, hot anger blazing through his system. How could Sherlock, anyone really, be this cold?

“Stop the car.” John called out to the driver. He needed air. He needed… distance.

The taxi stopped and John exited without being Sherlock trying to stop him. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to anyway.

~::~::~::~::~

John watched the taxi take off, slowly walking down the road. His heartbeat calmed with every step he took. Sherlock was unbelievable. But what had John been thinking anyway? He hardly knew the man. Something about Sherlock though seemed familiar like -- like he had known him once. In another life. If John bought into such things.

John shook his head.

Sentiment indeed.

London’s streets were busy tonight - like every night in this pulsating city - and John’s leg started to cramp. He needed a ride. There was no way he was going to make it back to his place without his cane. Which he had left in Sherlock’s flat.

John sighed deeply.

It looked like he had to see Sherlock again after all.

John hailed a cab.

~::~::~::~::~

Sherlock had made it home without further distractions. He needed to stay focused, not wasting any brain capacity on John’s opinion of him.

John.

Why was it that that man was able to puzzle him?

An ordinary man with an ordinary life. And still… Something about John -- Sherlock wasn’t even able to pin-point what John was doing to him exactly. He had no data. Nobody was ever of any importance to him.

Focus, Sherlock chided himself. He was on a case. Nothing should be more important than that.

_Think!_

Four murders.

With the discovery of their latest victim they knew that they had been abducted, disappearing from busy streets, crowded places. But nobody saw them go.

_Think!_

Sherlock started to pace up and down the flat.

Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?

Sherlock suddenly stopped pacing, a thought taking form.

“Brilliant,” he whispered, dialling DI Lestrade’s number.

“A cab driver.” Sherlock said as Lestrade picked up.

Mystery solved.

_Next._

~::~::~::~::~

John was standing in his kitchen, preparing tea when he thought he heard a small sound. He put the kettle down, listening. Head cocked to the right.

A minute went by without John hearing anything. He shrugged his shoulder and put the kettle back on. Probably just his overactive imagination.

Teacup in hand John entered his living room. He hadn’t even made it all the way in when John’s eye fell on somebody sitting in his chair. The teacup slipped out of his hands, falling to the ground, spilling hot liquid all over the floor.

“Jesus Christ!” John swore, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

Sherlock bloody Holmes was sitting in his living room.

“You are easily startled for a soldier,” a small satisfied smile played around Sherlock’s lips.

“Doctor,” John corrected. “Army doctor. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I ought to -- apologize,” Sherlock almost seemed to choke on the word, “for my behaviour earlier.”

John cocked his head, looking at Sherlock closely.

“No, you don’t,” John said, going back to the kitchen to get a towel to clean up the mess.

“You are right, I don’t,” Sherlock agreed, watching John mopping up the spilled tea. He didn’t seem to be angry at all.

“So, what are you doing here really?”

Sherlock sighed deeply. “I believe my brother Mycroft offered you a deal.”

“You call that a deal?” John’s eyebrows rose. “And don’t even pretend that you want me to move in with you,” he added, taking a seat across from Sherlock.

“Could be interesting,” Sherlock said.

“You would want a stranger to move in with you because it could be interesting?”

“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.” Sherlock grinned, taking in John’s expression of surprise.

“That was amazing,” John marvelled.

“Did I get anything wrong?”

“Sister,” John answered and when Sherlock cocked his head in question added: “You said brother. I actually have a sister. Harriet.”

“Sister,” Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, annoyed. “There is always something.” He said and stood, striding towards the door.

“I see you later then,” Sherlock announced without looking back and left.

“Git,” John said and grinned.

Interesting, indeed.

~::~::~::~::~

Sherlock though that his conversation with John went rather well. The man didn’t seem unreasonable and he expected him to arrive in -- Sherlock took a quick glance at his watch -- thirty-three minutes.

His cell phone chimed with an incoming message.

_You may be interested to learn_  
Doctor Watson took a cab that  
is not taking him where he wants to go  
MH 

“John!”

~::~::~::~::~

John looked out the window of the cab - either the cabbie was new in the business or he was trying to get some more money from John. This was hardly the way to 221B Baker Street; it was actually in the opposite direction of where he wanted to go.

John squirmed in his seat, trying to come up with a polite way to address their problem when the cabbie looked through the rear view mirror at John and said: “See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ’ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.”

John’s blood ran cold, his heart rate rose for split second before it calmed. He had been to war; he would certainly be able to deal with one man.

The cabbie smiled at John as if he had been reading John’s mind.

“Don’t do anything stupid Dr. Watson,” he said. “I do have a gun.”

“How do you know my name?” John asked.

“Oh, I know all about you,” the cabbie answered. “You and your friend. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock?” John frowned, leaning forward. “This is about Sherlock? I just met him; I wouldn’t say we’re friends. I don’t even know if I like the guy.”

“But you do, don’t you? And you don’t even know why.” The cabbie sounded as if he pitied him and John’s hands balled into fists.

“If you want to kill me, you'd better do it quick. Whatever you think Sherlock is going to do, he won’t.” John shook his head, sadness settling heavy in his chest.

For the longest time he had wanted to die but something had changed and he would rather find out what instead of being murdered by a crazy London cab driver.

“I don’t want to kill you Doctor Watson.” The cabbie smiled at John. “Someone would like to meet you and it would be very unfortunate for me if something were to happen to you.”

“Who would want to meet me?” John asked curiously. “I’m nobody.”

“A fan of Sherlock’s.”

“A fan?”

The cabbie nodded and John leaned back in his seat. There was nothing to be done until they reached their destination. Maybe once there John would find an opening to escape. He certainly wasn’t counting on Sherlock to save him. Sherlock wouldn’t even know that he had gone missing, would he? This was just crazy, John told himself, trying to ignore his steady beating heart. Deep down, he was enjoying this. He had been missing excitement in his life for quite awhile and now it was all coming back.

~::~::~::~::~

Sherlock was riding in cab of his own, giving instructions to the driver that he was reading from his phone.

The wait was unacceptable but Sherlock had no means of finding John on his own. He needed his ever-meddling big brother and his CCTV to get to John.

Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to calm his wildly beating, treacherous heart.  
Ever since John had walked into his life that stupid thing had been behaving like it had a will of its own. Pointing toward one John Watson.

Sherlock was certain that his own heart, the one he lost not six months ago, would never have betrayed him like this.

Idiotic. Sherlock shook his head in annoyance.

The heart beating in his chest was just an organ, a muscle, pumping blood throughout his body. He could hardly blame his sentimental thoughts on the very thing that had saved his life.

_If this is our serial killer_  
he has changed his ways  
MH 

Sherlock looked out the window again. Indeed they were still in the heart of the city instead of an abandoned, less populated area.

“Why?” Sherlock whispered. “Why here? Why John?”

_What did you_  
not tell me?  
SH 

_About John.  
SH_

There was something he was missing. Something he should have figured out by now, Sherlock was certain of it.

What had Mycroft done?

The cab was riding through the darkness while Sherlock put his hands underneath his chin, his thinking pose.

_THINK!_

~::~::~::~::~

The cab stopped and John looked outside.

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College.” John recognized the building.  “Why here?”

“It’s open; cleaners are in.” The cabbie answered, opening the door for John, gun in hand. “One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot”

John looked at the gun, assessing if he should make his move now or… Suddenly John spotted a red dot right above his heart.

Sniper.

His heart fell.

“Let’s go, Doctor Watson,” the cabbie said smiling, leading John inside. The red dot never wavered.

~::~::~::~::~

_Cab driver is_  
not alone  
MH 

_Taking necessary_  
precautions  
MH 

Sherlock stepped off the cab at the Roland-Kerr Further Education College, taking in his surroundings.

This certainly was not an ideal place for a murder. Too many vantage points to get ambushed. Sherlock was not one step closer to what was really going on. That had never happened to him before, ever. He didn’t like it one bit.

Especially the role John was playing in all this was still a mystery. How could an ordinary doctor, a widower, get himself involved in a murder-kidnapping?

Sherlock quickly run through everything he knew about John:

_Army doctor_

_Afghanistan_

_Widower_

_Alcoholic estranged sibling_

_No close family_

_Depressed_

_Thrill seeker_

_Strong moral compass_

_Friendly_

_Dangerous_

None of those things bore any relevance to what was happening now, Sherlock concluded. Something else in John’s life must have brought this on.

Sherlock was running out of time. Whatever was going on there would be time later to figure it out. Once he had John back.

~::~::~::~::~

“What are we going to do now?” John asked the cabbie once inside the library, the red dot following his every move.

“We wait,” the cabbie answered in a relaxed voice.

“For what?” John was slowly getting annoyed with the whole situation. He hated waiting, always had.

“Ever the impatient soldier,” a different voice sounded through the room and a man in a dark, expensive suit entered. “Evening,” he greeted cheerfully, stepping closer.

“Who the hell are you?” John asked through gritted teeth, eyeing the newcomer.

“I will make proper introductions once Sherlock is here.”

“Sherlock won’t be coming,” John said, shaking his head.

“He is, though,” the man looked toward the door he just came through. “Isn’t that right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock entered.

“How could I resist such an invitation?” Sherlock asked calmly, his eyes taking in John’s condition, noticing the target point just over his heart. “John?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” John assured.

The man in the suit sneered. “Isn’t that lovely?” He stepped between Sherlock and John, breaking their connection. “I thought you were above all that, Sherlock.” The man shuddered in disgust.

“Jim Moriarty, if anyone is interested.” Jim stepped closer to Sherlock, walking slowly around him. “The famous consulting detective,” he said absently. “We could have been so good together, you and I,” Jim said his voice full of regret.

Sherlock frowned.

“You came close to me once, you know,” Jim continued dreamingly. “Not anymore though. Now, you are just as pathetic as everyone ELSE.” He screamed out the last word. “I will burn the heart out of you.” Jim’s voice had gone dangerously low again.

Sherlock tried to keep relaxed.

“I was reliably informed that I don’t have one.”

“That may have been true before,” Jim smiled dangerously, now looking between Sherlock and John. “But not anymore, is it, Sherlock?”

All of a sudden everything made sense to Sherlock, everything.

“Ohhhh,” Jim all but danced around the room in glee, reading the shock on Sherlock’s face. “You didn’t know. Oh, this is so much better than I thought.”

“Sherlock?” John asked in confusion.

Sherlock shook his head, willing John to keep quiet. He had to concentrate, anticipating when Mycroft would make his move.

“What is he going on about?” John whispered, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s.

“C’mon Sherlock, tell him.” Jim mocked, his obvious glee written all over his face. “Tell him!”

John’s distress made Sherlock step closer to him, drawing the red dot onto his chest rather than John’s.

“Do not listen to him. Not now. I will explain later,” Sherlock whispered urgently, his eyes indicating toward the windows. To his satisfaction John seemed to get that something was about to happen. His stance widened like he was bracing himself and small smile played around Sherlock’s lips.

Brilliant!

“Don’t spoil it now, Sherlock,” Jim said, sensing that the tension was changing. But before he could say anything more the window scattered in a million pieces, the target vanished from Sherlock’s chest. The cabbie fell to the floor while Sherlock tackled John to the ground.

It only took a few seconds and it was quiet again.

The cabbie was dead.

Moriarty was gone, leaving only some drops of blood in his wake.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, his body still covering John’s. He was painfully aware that their hearts were beating in sync.

“Yeah,” John nodded. “You?”

“Good.” Sherlock swallowed, slowly getting up, dragging John upright with him.

Standing, John placed his hand over Sherlock’s heart, feeling its beat vibrating through both their bodies. “Is it true then?” John whispered. He never thought that he would be so glad to feel Mary’s heart beat in this madman’s chest.

Sherlock was unusually touched. John was supposed to be angry, outraged. He, Sherlock, clearly, did not deserve John’s wife’s heart.

“Are you…” Sherlock was about to ask when John’s eyes met his and all breath left his lungs.

“Yeah, I’m good with this,” John answered Sherlock’s unfinished question, his other hand reaching for Sherlock’s face. “More than good,” he said, placing a soft kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

Someone cleared their throat behind them and both men turn around, facing Mycroft.

“Everything is in order then,” Mycroft said, a satisfied smile on his lips. Before he was able to leave again, though John rushed to him, his hands balled.

John’s fist struck Mycroft face painfully, blood running from his nose immediately.

“Thanks, mate,” John said, nodding his head before he dragged Sherlock out of the room with him.

“Brilliant.”

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This is written as a birthday present for my friend. She chose the movie "Return To Me" - I didn't use it as much as I should be she likes it anyway:)  
> Many thanks to my little helpers stillcentre & tehomet!


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